


Then, Now, Soon

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguity, Anal Fingering, Blood (related to illness), Dark fic, Dom/sub, Gags, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Major Illness, Manipulation, Ownership, Plague, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safeword Use, Spanking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, Harry and Draco seemed on the verge of something beautiful. Now, everything is ruined. Soon, there will be a chance to make it right again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> With the most thanks on earth to our loveliest **amorette** for her patience and guidance, to **eidheann** for beta-reading and cheerleading and hand-holding and ledge-talking-off, and to the community for being all about dem tropes, bout dem tropes.

Draco drooled around the gag holding his mouth open and felt the shame and humiliation all throughout his body, like the hot buzzing of anxiety only without the accompanying sense of fear. Because Harry was going to take care of him. Harry always took care of him when he felt like this; and if his cock was hard, if his body was straining with the need for release and Harry wasn’t touching him yet, it only meant that he wasn’t ready. Harry only let him come when he was really ready.

“Look at you,” Harry said in a low voice, from his place behind Draco. Draco couldn’t see him, but he could imagine the look in Harry’s eyes. He could imagine that the bright green of Harry’s eyes was all but swallowed up by dark pupils, aroused and desperate to get inside his boy.

Draco wriggled his arse a little until he heard the sharp intake of breath. Anticipation raced through him like a living thing as he felt the heat of Harry coming up close behind him.

“Such a tease,” Harry muttered, almost too quiet for Draco to hear him. Except that Draco was always in tune with Harry when they did these things together. He and Harry had a level of trust and understanding that transcended all the painful memories from their shared past.

Harry dragged one hand over Draco’s arse, and Draco let out a garbled moan when Harry pressed firmly against the hot, red place where he’d left a mark. Harry’s answering chuckle made gooseflesh break out over Draco’s skin, and his cock dribbled more pre-come onto the sheets. He tried to entice Harry further, raising his arse high, presenting himself better, but Harry’s hands slid up and gripped his hips, holding him in place.

“I know what you want, baby,” Harry said, tightening his grip further and eliciting another pained moan from Draco. “But I’m not going to give you what you want. You’re not ready yet. You have to earn it, and I think you know that you haven’t earned it yet.”

Draco cried out and nearly dropped out of position when Harry backed away from the edge of the bed again. His arms had started to shake with the strain of propping himself up, and to lose Harry’s support was almost too much for Draco to bear. But Harry was right, of course; if Draco still wasn’t ready, he didn’t deserve Harry’s cock. He had to earn the privilege.

“There’s my good boy,” Harry said, as Draco pushed himself back up on his hands and knees, just like Harry liked him. “Always so good for me. I’m going to give you want you need.”

Draco whimpered around the gag, as Harry pressed a slick fingertip against Draco’s arsehole. He began to circle the rim with the barest of light touches. It tickled, but it also felt so delicious and perfect. Harry always knew exactly what he liked, what he wanted, but more importantly, what he _needed_.

But then he kept on, he just kept on circling, dipping the tip of his finger inside for a second and then returning to circling around the rim. Draco didn’t know for how long, but it just kept happening, until he finally let out a begging moan and dropped his head between his arms.

Harry laughed at him. “Not enough? You think you’ve earned more?” he asked.

Draco moaned again and tried to push his arse back against Harry’s fingers.

“So greedy,” Harry responded, but took pity anyway, and in one smooth motion slipped a finger inside. 

Draco inhaled sharply through his nose and breathed out against the intrusion, but fuck, it did, it felt so good. Harry always made him feel so good.

“Fuck, you take it so well, sweetheart. And you deserve more. You deserve more for being such a good boy for me.” Harry fit a second finger in as he spoke, his breathing going as ragged as Draco’s.

After a few moments of thrusting his fingers in and out to stretch Draco a little, Harry curved his fingertips upward and found Draco’s prostate. Draco nearly buckled under the sensation as Harry began to massage the spot, his elbows bending and his face pressing into the bed.

“No, no, no,” Harry chided, pulling back from his ministrations carefully. “How do I like you? You know how you’re supposed to be, Draco.” Draco whimpered, but pulled himself back up, and as soon as he did, Harry slipped further in and began massaging him once again. “That’s my good boy,” he whispered.

But he kept it up. Harry kept it up. He just kept massaging, kept rubbing over and over. Draco squirmed, tried to let him know that he wanted his cock, that he needed his cock, but still, Harry kept working him over with only his fingers.

It was too much; Merlin, it was so, so too much, Draco was sinking under the weight of it. Harry kept rubbing in maddening circles inside Draco, and Draco’s cock strained with the need to be touched, with the need to come-- fuck, he needed to come so, so badly, but Harry still wasn’t letting him. Why not? Why not, he’d been so good, he’d done everything he was supposed to do, but Harry still wasn’t letting him come! He wanted it so badly, he needed it .Didn’t Harry want him? Didn’t Harry want to be inside him? Had he done something wrong? Had he failed? How, how, when all he’d done was everything Harry had ever wanted him to do? He’d been so good, hadn’t he? Did Harry not want him anymore?

Draco shakily raised one hand and flailed behind himself until he was able to grab Harry by the wrist. Harry immediately turned his hand palm up. Then, when Draco tapped three times with his fore-and-middle fingers against Harry’s pulse point, Harry carefully removed his fingers from Draco’s arse and reached for the clasp behind Draco’s head that held the ring gag in place. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said quietly. “You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

The words tore through the haze in Draco’s head, quieted the anxiety and filled him with pride. He had done well. Harry had told him that he was supposed to ask for what he needed, and he’d done it, and Harry was so, so proud of him. He said so. Harry said he was proud of him.

“That’s right, love, I am proud,” Harry answered him. “You remembered what to do when it was too much, and you did it just right. Such a good boy for me, aren’t you? Always such a good boy for me.”

Draco sometimes thought that he liked this part the best, even better than when Harry used him hard or made him come more than he thought was physically possible. He liked it when Harry was sweet to him. He liked it when Harry touched him gently like this, with his work-callused fingers carefully massaging Draco’s jaw against the strain of having held his mouth open for so long. He liked it when Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s temple, his forehead and his nose, and kissed him in each place for the count of three. He liked it when Harry wrapped him in the fuzzy, warm blanket and gathered Draco into his lap. He liked it when Harry held him for however long it took Draco to stop floating.

Harry reached between Draco’s legs after a long time, Draco couldn’t tell how long, and wrapped his hand around Draco’s cock. “Come for me, Draco,” he said quietly, as he stroked Draco, firmly and evenly.

Draco sighed out his release between one heartbeat and the next, the waves of pleasure cresting almost gently, not overwhelming him, but rather feeling like sinking into a warm bath after a long day of standing over brewing cauldrons, shouting at assistants and trying to find a way to communicate that he just needed a little more time before the human testing portion of the trials could begin.

A few moments later, he opened his eyes and turned his head, meeting Harry’s hooded ones. “Did you…” Draco trailed off, wary suddenly, as he noticed that Harry was soft beneath him.

“Mmmm,” Harry leaned in and hummed in his ear. “You were perfect, Draco. You were perfect for me. You gave me exactly what I needed.”

Draco shivered unconsciously, allowed himself to enjoy Harry’s embrace a moment longer, and then carefully got up and began looking for his clothing. Then, a little later still, when he was dressed, Draco said, “All right, Potter, must be getting back to the lab.”

“You ever going to start calling me Harry outside of our scenes?” Potter asked, laughing a little. He smiled genuinely, as he ran a hand through his hair, pulling his messy fringe away from his forehead only for it to flop right back into place.

Draco started slightly, but couldn’t deny the flood of warmth that spread through him all over again at the permission. His lips curved up in a smile despite himself, and he replied, “All right, _Harry_.”

Harry’s answering smile was dazzling.


	2. Now

The cell door swings open, kicking up a cloud of rusty dust that hangs in the stagnant air for a long moment before settling. From his seated position against the far wall, Draco suppresses a cough and follows the line of the guard’s body with only his eyes: the heavy black boots, the bright crimson robes -- not Azkaban then, but Auror. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Draco greets, tone rough with prolonged disuse, but still haughty enough to be recognizable to his own ears. He raises his eyes further, takes in the mask over the Auror’s mouth and smirks. “Muzzled is a good look on you, Granger.”

He wonders if her mouth twists beneath the cloth, but her eyes remain fixed on him, not betraying a thing. It’s almost impressive, her composure. She must have come a long way since the day she’d hit him in the face.

“Get up, Malfoy,” she only says, her words perfectly clear through some sort of amplification charm.

Draco laughs bitterly. “Thank you, but no. I’ve only just got comfortable, you see.”

Granger withdraws her wand and points it at him. “Not a request. On your feet, now.”

“I think at the very least I deserve to know what you plan to do with me.” Draco continues to just stare up at her, doesn’t shift at all to indicate his plans to obey her. (If there’s even the slightest chance that she wants to take him out of this hellhole, he’s going to leap upon it -- even knowing what’s out there waiting for him.)

“Get. Up,” she merely replies, and now her eyes flash dangerously.

He knows better than to push his own luck with this one, even though he itches to bite out more choice taunts, possibly even call her a Mudblood for old times’ sake. Several months of prison-life, as well as a life-time of Slytherin preservation, have taught him that. So Draco breathes a dramatic sigh, hefts himself up using the slimy wall for leverage, and gets to his feet. Once standing, he has to close his eyes against the sudden wave of dizziness. How long has he been down there? How long since he last had something more substantial than crusty bread and metallic-tasting water?

He knows the state of the world out there, despite his seeming isolation. He knows what he unleashed upon wizarding Britain, knows the level of devastation that was not only possible, but highly probable considering the volatility of his creation. But how long has it really been? He’s long since stopped being able to cast a wandless _Tempus_ , stopped being able to hazard a guess by the stretch of the shadows across the filthy floor, stopped being able to tell by the changing of the guards when one day turned over into the next.

He doesn’t expect her to offer a steadying hand and instinct has him flinching away immediately, which only magnifies the sudden nausea. Draco bends over and retches onto the ground. There was very little in his stomach, but his mouth tastes disgusting once he finishes, and when he raises his eyes and takes in the pity he sees in Granger’s, shame and anger rise up in equal parts inside him. “Granger,” he croaks out, “if you would…”

She conjures a glass of water which he uses to rinse out his mouth. It’s so cool, so fresh, and he gulps the rest of it greedily.

“Not too fast,” she says, “or you’ll be sick again.”

“Well aware, Granger,” he manages. “I’m a Healer, remember?”

At that, her eyes narrow and she seems to remember what she was sent here for. Her spine straightens, and she’s the impressive Auror once again. “Hands in front of you for binding,” she orders.

And it’s probably sick that the order does things to his insides. Even though it’s Granger, even even though he honestly doesn’t think he could get it up if he even wanted to, not having felt anything resembling arousal in ages. The simple order, the thought of being restrained, it cuts straight through everything else in his head and pokes at the place in him that just wants so badly to be controlled. The place that wants to drop to his knees and just let someone else take the lead. The place that wants someone take care of him so that he doesn’t have to think about the multitude of his sins.

Draco manages to keep himself steady and holds out his hands in front of him, palms up in supplication. He inhales sharply as he feels the invisible bonds snap tight and secure around his wrists, and his eyes flick up to look at her again; he has to see if she’s gaining any pleasure from this treatment of him, if maybe it’s just something that all Aurors feel having that kind of power over another person. But she only looks at him with cool, detached professionalism before she turns and starts out of the cell.

“You never said where we were going, Granger,” he says, as the bond tugs him forward after her.

“Are you immune?” she asks in place of answering.

Draco’s brought up short by the question and doesn’t bother playing that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but I don’t know. I was never in a position to test the theory…” he trails off and a chill wracks his body. “Granger...please,” and he almost chokes on the word, “tell me where you’re taking me.”

He watches as she straightens her back, watches the pull of her shoulders tightening with tension, and genuine fear begins to spread its way through him. He’d thought he would have given anything to leave Azkaban, but if it’s safer here—

“To your former laboratory,” she finally answers, still not looking at him.

It isn’t at all what Draco’s expecting, but it doesn’t exactly relieve the strangled grip of the anxiety that has wrapped itself around his lungs. “And why are you taking me there?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice even.

“Because it’s time for you to go to work,” she replies, and her voice wavers for only a moment, but it’s long enough for Draco to know suddenly and without equivocation that something is terribly, terrifyingly wrong.

\---

He can admit that he’d assumed much worse than the reality, but it doesn’t make the reality any less devastating. More than anything, it’s the silence that unnerves him. The few people braving the streets rush furtively along, complete their shopping and then disappear as quickly as they arrive; their mouths are all covered by masks, and if they’re saying anything at all to their companions, Draco can’t hear it.

Granger had given him a mask before they left the island, and he raises his hand to adjust it a little, as they move swiftly together along the length of Diagon and into Knockturn where Draco’s former employer still resides.

The apothecary is as deserted as every other shop seems to be, except for the flurry of owls flying in and out. Draco turns to Granger in surprise, forgets himself a moment, and says, “How are they still in business?”

She scoffs a laugh at him. “Perhaps not surprisingly, when half the population is ill, the pharmaceutical trade is one of the few booming industries left.”

“But--but--but they--” He can’t get the words out; he’s too surprised, too shaken.

She turns then and glares at him. “What did you think was going to happen after they did you over?”

A loud rushing sensation floods Draco’s head; he can’t hear anything over it, and the sudden roiling in his gut nearly bends him double. He puts his hands on his knees and tries to breathe against it, the pain, the nausea again. He knows how weak he must look, and it only makes him breathe harder, feel worse. “You knew?” he manages to choke out, unable to look at her.

“Of course I knew,” she replies, and Draco doesn’t know if the disgust in her tone is for his behavior or theirs.

Righteous anger rises up suddenly in place of the upset. Draco stands tall and takes a step forward, tries to reach for the wand he belatedly remembers won’t be there and sneers as both hands have to come up in front of him, bound together as they are. Granger only passively observes him, obviously not perturbed in the slightest, and it only makes him angrier. “You knew what they did to me, and you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it?” he grits out.

“What was I supposed to have done, Malfoy?” she responds. “You might not have been alone in this, but you’re certainly not innocent either.”

He narrows his eyes and takes another step forward, hands curling into impotent fists in front of him. “You stood by and didn’t do a damn thing while they sacrificed me like a fucking lamb, Granger, and you’re supposed to be the bloody good guys! You’re supposed to be the heroes of the day, you and Weasley and Har--” Draco cuts himself off abruptly and looks away, hoping the sudden high color in his cheeks will be attributed to his anger.

“Surprised it took you this long to mention him,” Granger says after a long moment of letting him stew in his embarrassment. Her tone is unreadable.

Draco looks up. “Is he...how is he?” he asks, and he’s even more embarrassed at the fervent hope he can hear in his own voice. Harry never visited, not once -- why would he have? It’s not like they’d had a real relationship with one another. It’s not like Harry went to bed every night wishing that Draco would be there, all curled up around him, holding him close and keeping the nightmares at bay. It’s not like Draco was so important to Harry that he’d put off work in order to spend time with Draco. It’s not like Harry ever wanted anything more.

But it might have been nice, Draco thinks, as he watches Granger’s jaw work around whatever answer she’s trying to come up with. It might have been nice to look out between the bars and see Harry’s bright green eyes, his awful hair—might have been nice to drop to his knees from just that one look, the one that always made something shiver to life inside Draco, made him want to do whatever Harry said, if only because Harry so deserved it.

“Granger,” Draco says again when she gives up and turns around to head into the apothecary. He wants to ask if Harry’s still angry with him. He wants to ask a hundred different things, but mostly he wants to ask if Harry might consider seeing him again. “Granger, is he—”

“—he’s ill,” she interrupts sharply.

Draco freezes, and something inside him shatters.

“What do you mean?” he asks, so quietly that he almost can’t hear himself. But maybe that’s more because the blood is rushing in his ears again.

“I think you know what I mean,” she replies, just as quietly. “Now move.”

“I want to see him,” Draco immediately replies, mind working feverishly.

“He’s in quarantine, Malfoy, you can’t see him,” Granger says, as she forces him through the doors of the apothecary by pulling on the magical bond. Draco doesn’t even bother fighting against it. He doesn’t drag his feet or whinge about the rough treatment, but he certainly has no intention of beginning to work again before she takes him to see Harry. He needs to see with his own two eyes that Harry needs him.

He pulls up short, though, once he’s inside, and takes in the gleaming silver, sterile surfaces of the facility. It smells the same as it used to do, and he’s not sure why he’s surprised by that, but he is. Everything smells and looks and suddenly _feels_ the same, and Draco’s struck by the memory of his life in the aftermath of the war. Struck by the opportunities that had been there for the taking if only he hadn’t, once again, cast his lot in with the wrong side.

And yet, for all the similarity, it wasn’t the same really. At the end of the day, the Dark Lord was just one man. The medicinal potions industry was a vast, widespread network of power, and Draco had just been one cog in the machine.

He supposes that all it really takes is one, though, doesn’t it?

“Granger,” he says quietly.

“Don’t bother asking me again, Malfoy. My answer is going to be the same,” she heads him off, but he wasn’t going to ask about Harry this time.

Draco looks around him at the empty shelves where the merchandise used to lay, as bright and gleaming as everything else. It was all so dazzling–and all such a mirage. “Granger,” he tries again, “are they here? Do they...do they know I’m here?”

She stops tugging on the bond and stares at him. Her eyes are suddenly soft, and he can see the sadness there. His stomach knots again. She’s lost someone. She’s probably lost many someones, and it’s his fault.

“You have a small team to assist you,” she then answers smoothly, and she’s all hard lines and coiled tension again. “Only one of whom, I believe, you’ve worked with previously.”

“And the rest?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“The rest are dead.”

\---

They all stare at him warily as Granger introduces them one by one, but Draco’s barely listening. He doesn’t need to shake their hands or know their names or their qualifications in order for them to work effectively for him. All he needs to know is whether or not they can follow instructions precisely and keep their mouths shut while they do it.

And yet, it’s moot, of course, at least for now because Draco very adamantly isn’t going to do anything until he’s taken to see Harry.

“And of course you already know Healer Abramowicz,” she finishes, with a jerk of her chin towards Magnus, “who has been working steadily since your incarceration to develop a cure.”

“Obviously without much success. Maggie never quite had my genius,” he turns away from Granger to rake his eyes along the length of Magnus’s body in the way Draco knew from the beginning made him distinctly uncomfortable, “did you?”

Magnus doesn’t disappoint, flushing a perfect red under the scrutiny, rather than the insult. “Wouldn’t call it _genius_ , Malfoy.”

“Vision, then,” Draco replies, lips curving up into a sly smile.

“Is this funny to you?” Granger interjects, advancing towards him.

Draco only just manages not to flinch. “Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that—”

“This isn’t a game, Malfoy,” she sneers at him, stepping up close into his personal space. Even though she’s a whole head shorter than he is, he can feel the power and control radiating off of her, and again he’s struck with the same beautiful and terrifying urge to get down on his knees and let her tell him exactly what he should be doing and how he should be doing it.

But he doesn’t belong to Granger, nor would he ever actually want to belong to her. He belongs to one person alone.

So Draco looks down at her, fixes his expression to one of indifference, and replies, “I know it isn’t a game, Granger, and I also know that it isn’t particularly funny.”

She narrows her eyes and lowers her voice again, as she says, “Then stop laughing and get to work.”

Draco casts his eyes behind her, looks over the laboratory, looks over the assistants waiting, however reluctantly, to be told what to do, and it suddenly takes everything in Draco’s power not to actually start laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He remembers how hard he’d worked to get his Potions Mastery, how much he’d done to prove that he was worthy of respect and admiration in the aftermath of the war, how pleased he’d been to land the contract by merit, rather than or in spite of his surname and misdeeds. He remembers being so proud the first time he’d walked into his own laboratory, seeing the smiling faces of the people he’d hand-chosen to work alongside him in his research and development. He remembers how good it had all felt and then, oh—how painful it all became.

“No,” he then responds, looking back down into Granger’s eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

The smirk comes to his lips easily, a muscle memory. “Begging becomes you too, Granger,” he sneers.

Murmurs of unease catch his ears, and he wants to look up and see his assistants shuffling around nervously, but he can’t back down from Granger. Granger gets closer to him again, so close that her breasts brush against his chest. She tilts her chin up, and her lips could brush his if either of them leaned just a hair closer. It’s irrationally exhilarating, and Draco’s smirk softens into a smile quite against his will.

“Get to work, Malfoy,” she orders.

Draco suppresses his shiver. “No,” he says again.

“Fine, then, I will take you straight back to Azkaban and let you rot there—”

“—except that you won’t, actually.” Draco folds his arms against his chest, knocking her back a pace. He holds his expression, not allowing himself to show amusement at the sharp intake of breath he hears one of his assistants make.

Granger glares at him and raises her wand. “Interrupt me again, and I will hex your mouth shut.”

He shakes his head. “No, you won’t do that either. Because you _need_ me, Granger. You need me, and you need me _happy_ more than that, so you’re not actually going to do a damned thing. You’ve run out of options.”

“There are always other options,” she says petulantly, and oh, he’s got her now.

Draco lets himself smile a little. “If there was someone else who could have done it, you’d have found him by now, I should think,” he then says evenly. “What with Maggie’s obvious failures, hmm?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” Magnus shouts and takes a step forward, but stops short like the impotent little pissant he is when Granger steps between them. “At least I tried! At least I realized where all this was headed and fucking tried to do something about it.”

“Tried and failed, clearly,” he replies.

“He—” one of the others says, hesitantly at first, but then more confidently, “— made some great strides in slowing the virus down—”

“—giving people false hope?” Draco interrupts, archly.

“It wasn’t false hope,” she replies, fiercely. “It was just _hope_!”

“Enough of this!” Granger interjects before he can retort. “This is a useless waste of time! Malfoy, get to fucking work, or I will _make_ you!”

“Except that you really _can’t_ make me, Granger, can you? Short of...well, something that would compromise your precious principles, now wouldn’t it?” he questions.

“Malfoy, for god’s sake, people are _dying_ out there. Are you really so bloody selfish that you’d—”

“—’course I am, Granger, you know that,” he interrupts. “You give me what I want, and then I’ll give you what you want.”

Granger stares at him, aghast, while his assistants break out in cries of outrage and fear.

“What do you want?” demands one of them— the youngest-looking woman, he doesn’t remember her name either. “What does he want?” She rounds on Granger too. “Whatever it is, can’t you just give it to him? Please!”

“He...he wants—he’s a prisoner, he has no rights— and we can’t just…” Granger’s tongue-tied with anger, and it just makes Draco smile all the more.

“Please, for fuck’s sake, Mrs. Weasley, can’t you just— oh...oh God, I’m—” Magnus turns red again and looks to his fellows for help.

Draco isn’t sure why, but then it dawns on him, and as awful as he is, and he knows he is, he can’t actually take pleasure in this. Because he’s reminded again that it’s his fault. It’s his fault that she’s a widow at— _Merlin, it’s all his fault_ —twenty-five.

And oh, but Granger looks so sad again. He did that. He made a mistake, and he made the wrong choice, and he failed.

But he also knows that he’s got her. And she’s going to take him to see Harry, like she should.

\---

Draco forgets for a moment that he’s a criminal and a bastard and a Slytherin when they bring him into the observation room; he tries to break loose from his magical bonds, tries to shove past the security guards and Granger, tries to shove his way into Harry’s room with absolutely no finesse.

Because he can see Harry there, sitting in a rocking chair facing out the window, and he looks, Merlin, he looks _the same_. A little older, certainly, a little premature grey dappling through his hair, but otherwise, he’s the same man that put Draco on his knees, claimed Draco for his own years ago before everything went so spectacularly to shit.

Draco presses a hand to the full-length glass window separating them and he opens his mouth, but he can’t seem to find the air to speak. And maybe that’s because he’s not supposed to speak until Harry tells him he can, or maybe it’s just because he’s suddenly so relieved to see that Harry’s alive and equally terrified because he knows that Harry doesn’t have long to live—and it’s all Draco’s fucking fault.

A sob wrenches itself unexpectedly from his chest, and the sound of it is enough to startle Granger at his side. It also catches Harry’s attention. And oh, oh god—

“Malfoy?” Harry says.

Draco doesn’t care that Harry called him _Malfoy_ again. Hell, he probably deserves it. He probably has to earn his name again, which he’s more than willing to do. (And he knows that he can do it, too. He earned Harry’s trust once, he can definitely do it again.) “Potter,” he makes himself respond because he owes Harry that much at least.

Harry gets up from his rocking chair, dropping the blanket that was over his lap, and walks over to the window. If Draco didn’t know any better, he’d say that Granger had been lying to him—that Harry wasn’t ill at all, actually, and this was all just some odd dream—but he can see the beginnings of it in the way Harry’s normally bright green eyes are dull and his normally bright brown skin has paled. He’s walking a little slower than Draco remembers too, and Draco feels a wave of self-loathing so strong and sudden that his knees buckle and he falls forward against the glass.

“Malfoy, are you all right?” Harry asks, pressing his own hand to the glass.

A laugh bursts from Draco, because isn’t that rich? Isn’t it just so very Harry fucking Potter, who is dying in front of him, to ask if _he’s_ all right instead?

“Malfoy—” Harry turns his head away and coughs, a wet, wracking thing that chokes Draco’s laughter into silence.

“Potter,” Draco repeats, and when Harry turns back to him, he murmurs, “So it’s not so bad yet.”

Harry’s lips curve up in a wry smile. “No blood yet, anyway.”

Draco slides his hand up the glass until Harry meets his palm. “How did this happen?” Draco asks.

“Got exposed,” Harry answers enigmatically.

“No, I…” Draco trails off, swallows hard, looks at their hands instead of Harry’s eyes. “I mean, how did this happen? How did I...how did I…”

Harry coughs again, and Draco’s gaze sharply returns to his face. Harry takes a shaky breath in and out, and then he, incomprehensibly, smiles at Draco. “You were scared, and you were in too deep, and you made a bad choice, and then people who had way more power than you did used that choice to do something terrible,” he explains. “Seems to sort of be your thing, doesn’t it?”

And it does, doesn’t it? He just wants...he just wants to do well, he just wants to be good, and for so long, he was doing so well. He was hired to do a job, and he was so, so very good at that job. He did exactly what they wanted him to do, and then it changed. Then it got corrupted because things always, always get corrupted whenever he tries, and suddenly, he wasn’t good anymore. He made such a mistake, he made such a mess of everything, and when he tried to fix it, he did, he really did try, he _really did_ , but he told the wrong person, he trusted the wrong man just like he always, always does and oh, fuck, why does this always happen to him, why does he always fuck everything up—

“Sweetheart, shhhh.”

Draco’s eyes widen, and he looks up at Harry. (When did he get on his knees? When did he fall at Harry’s feet?) “Harry?” he breathes, and his breath fogs the glass in front of him. He wants Harry to touch him. He wants Harry to take care of him.

“I’m here, Draco,” Harry says.

“Harry, I’m so— I’m sorry!” And Draco doesn’t normally apologize, but Merlin, he is, he’s so sorry. He’s so sorry about all of this, even though he doesn’t act like it, even though he bullied Granger into letting him come here, even though he joked and made light of it. At the end, he’s so, so incredibly sorry. Sorry he wasn’t stronger. Sorry he wasn’t better. Sorry that he’s not good.

“I know, baby.” Harry pauses, coughs weakly this time, and continues. “I know you’re sorry.”

And it isn’t forgiveness, not exactly, but Draco certainly hasn’t earned that yet. And maybe he won’t. Maybe he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Maybe he’s fucked up too big this time, but that’s okay too. He won’t be forgiven if he doesn’t deserve it, but at least Harry will be alive. The least he can do is try.

“But I can fix it,” Draco then says fervently, surging up again. Harry didn’t tell him he could get off his knees, and maybe he’ll be punished for it later, but that’s okay because Harry needs to understand. “I’m going to fix this, Harry. I’m going to make it right.”

Harry smiles at him again, and when he speaks, his voice is as tired as his eyes. “That would be nice, love.”

“I will! Just you hang on. Just you wait and see, I’m going to do it, Harry!” Draco promises, as Granger steps forward and starts jostling him towards the door again. “I’m going to make this right!”

“Let’s go,” Granger says, gripping Draco by the wrists and Disapparating immediately.


	3. Soon

Draco will pour himself into the cure. It can’t be that hard, he’ll think. He’ll have all the research he did back when he was first starting the job. And he’ll have a team of people who will help him even though they hate him. And they’ll all work hard together.

It will take time, though. It will take lots of time—time that Harry doesn’t really have, but then, Harry’s always been a fighter. It will take months just to develop something that shows promise in lab rats, and all the while, Harry will get sicker and sicker, but he’ll still hold on. 

Draco will work his fingers to the bone every day, and he’ll scream at Granger and his team, and he’ll sometimes secretly long to just go back to prison because it’s so fucking hard to be out here in the world where people are dying all around him every single day. But every night, he’ll sit in the chair that Granger gave him in the observation space outside Harry’s room and tell him exactly how everything is going, and it’ll be okay.

Because Harry will look at Draco, will really look at him, and will see everything that Draco has always been trying to tell him. He’ll see that Draco never meant for everything to go so wrong. He’ll see that Draco only wanted to do a good job, even though there might be something corrupted inside of him, something that makes it impossible for Draco to do the right thing even and especially when it’s hard. Harry will see that Draco just wanted to do a good job, even if the job he was hired for wasn’t a good one at all.

And when Harry sees all of that, when Harry looks at Draco and sees that possibly, in spite of that corrupted part of him, he’s only trying to do the best job he can, Harry will understand. And Harry will forgive him for what he did. Harry will take him in hand like he always used to do. Harry will say, “Get down on your knees for me,” and Draco will obey so nicely, will obey so prettily, just like Harry has always deserved of him.

“Thank you, sir,” Draco will whisper, even though he’s not supposed to talk until Harry lets him. He won’t be able to help himself, he’ll be so grateful for the fact that Harry is doing this, is still willing to do this with him. Because Draco will know that he really doesn’t deserve it, no matter how hard he might have worked. He will know that he really deserves to be punished, and not in the way that Harry used to punish him before for his indiscretions and misbehaviors. He will know that he deserves to go back to Azkaban and rot there until he’s old and withered and unable to perform even the simplest of charms anymore. He’ll deserve nothing less than to be Kissed.

Harry will understand, though. Harry will see it in Draco’s eyes, the pain and the fear, and he’ll make everything better. He’ll show Draco that everything is going to be all right, that everything he did before no longer matters.

So Draco will work. He’ll work harder than he’s ever worked before, and this time, this time when he’s close to breaking, he’ll come to Harry and he’ll _talk_ instead of hexing. He’ll say, “I don’t know if I can do this,” quiet and broken and crying.

Harry won’t be able to get out of bed anymore, but he’ll push himself up on his elbows so he can see Draco. Draco will meet his eyes, and Harry will say, “Yes you can. I know you can. You can do it, Draco. You can do this. Don’t give up.” And he’ll smile so sweetly even though he’s in so much pain that Draco will believe him. (He’s never had reason to doubt Harry before. Harry’d healed him once, and Harry could always do it again.)

Draco will believe him, and he’ll go back to work refreshed, even though he’s exhausted. And the tests will start to improve.

Magnus will try to come into work one morning with watery eyes, and the others will try to quarantine him, but Draco will shout at them and welcome Magnus in with open arms. Because Magnus will have even more incentive to work on the cure, and he will work and work and work until he’s coughing up blood. Magnus will die, and Draco will go to his funeral service and say kind things to his mother, and she will scream and cry and slap at his chest, and Draco will take it, will take all of it because he deserves it. And then he will go right back to work, pushing harder and forcing himself to do better. He will take up the sample that Magnus had been working with and tweak it a little more, change just a little bit more of the composition, and then— _and then_ : everything will change.

His assistants will chirp that it’s a miracle, but Draco won’t accept that. There’s nothing miraculous about this cure and even less that’s miraculous about how this all began. It was just the work; it was just science. But he’ll accept a hug from Alyona even though he doesn’t deserve it, not really. He’ll quietly hold onto her anyway for just a little longer than perhaps he should. He’ll realize just how much he’s missed being touched.

He’ll then go directly to Granger, even though it hasn’t been tested in humans yet, and he’ll tell her that they’re ready. And she’ll bring him to Harry with hopeful tears in her eyes.

And Harry will try to refuse the cure at first, not because it’s still so new, but because he won’t believe he deserves special treatment. He’ll be wrong about that, as he always is. Harry may have once been someone that Draco hated when they were children, may have been someone that Draco was forced to grudgingly respect until that respect began to change, began to grow into something more beautiful, began to become the kind of trust that allowed Harry to draw out the part of Draco that had only ever wanted to please and nurture it the way it should have been nurtured, but Harry has also always been special. Harry has always been someone who deserves more.

So he’ll try to refuse the cure, protesting that others need it more than he does, but Draco will insist. Draco will burst into the hospital room, breaking all the quarantine procedures, and he’ll rush right up to Harry’s bed. Harry will look up at him, terrified, then furious, and he’ll start to yell at Draco until he has to stop to cough violently into a basin. He’ll cough up blood, and then he’ll look up at Draco with his mouth and chin stained crimson, and he’ll say, “No.”

But Draco won’t listen to him because he’ll know better. He’s the Healer, after all, and Harry is just a stupid patient. (All patients are stupid, Draco has always known this to be true, which is why he went into research and development rather than practical Healing.) Draco will pull out a syringe and Harry will squirm, but he’ll be so weakened by the disease that Draco will easily be able to hold him down and force the cure into his veins.

Harry’s eyes will widen, and Draco will stare right back at him, losing himself in the bright green. “What,” Harry will pause to take a shaky breath in and out, “what’s going to happen?”

And Draco will answer, “Either you’re going to die, or you’re going to live.”

And Harry will close his eyes and nod.

And Draco will kneel at Harry’s bedside for minutes or hours or days, still and silent, until Harry reaches out and slides his hand into Draco’s hair. Harry’s grip will tighten until he’s tugging on the long blond strands and pulling Draco up. Draco will trip on the long ends of his robes and fall face forward over the bed, but Harry will still have him by the hair. Draco’s hands will scrabble for purchase against the scratchy white hospital sheets, but he’ll gain a hold, just as Harry tugs him so close that their lips are inches apart. They will breathe the same air, and Draco’s eyes will dart all over Harry’s face, trying to take it all in, but being too close to see.

“Draco,” Harry will whisper, his lips brushing over Draco’s own. “Mine,” he’ll say.

And Draco will drop.

And Harry will live.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love ♥ You can also leave one on [Livejournal](http://hd-tropes.livejournal.com/37368.html).
> 
> Follow the [Harry/Draco Tropes Exchange](http://hd-tropes.livejournal.com/) for more fic and art. All creators will be revealed on Aug 29.


End file.
